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I’m relieved at her response, sitting back on my chair and losing the tension in my shoulders. “Okay, perfect. I’ll call the doctor down here tomorrow to place the implant. He’s been waiting to do it on humans for a long time now, so he’ll get here as quickly as I need him to.”
“It’s going to be shoved into my arm, huh?” she asks with unease as she sips more of her tea.
“Yeah, it’s going to suck a little, but I promise we’ll get you the best painkillers on the market. You have nothing to worry about. You’re in amazing hands.”
She withdraws, gazing out the window at the lights that illuminate the garden path. She’s also let go of the tension in her shoulders, and I believe this is the first real evidence that I’ve seen of her trusting me.
“I feel compelled to help you. I’m not sure why, but there’s something about you that keeps me coming back for more no matter what you give me, even if that thing is a task,” she says. “If this keeps you out of prison, it’ll be worth it.”
We both know why she feels compelled to help me. I won’t hold it over her head, but she’s not as smart of a woman as she thinks she is. She’s certainly not above risking her safety for some good dick, but I won’t be mean about it. For now, I get to keep her around for fuckingandfor strategy. At the end of the day, I’m winning no matter what.
16
Iris
Matteo might believe that I took this mission solely because I wanted his attention, but there are multiple factors at play here. For one, the way he reframed and exaggerated the difficulty of the role reminded me of John. I fucking hate the way that John condescends me, always acting like I have an IQ of thirty-five just because I’m a woman.
Secondly, this will be the piece that brings me to the forefront of journalism if his story isn’t enough to do it first. I’ll have the chance to save women from being enslaved by Vitale, but I’ll also be the one who exposed the world to the evils lurking in our city. To be the voice that made this conflict make sense would be one of the greatest honors I could ever receive.
I know that it’s insanely selfish to frame this situation in a way that favors my career, but that’s what got me here to begin with. And besides, now that I’ve fucked Matteo, I need something else to write about that won’t be overshadowed by my attraction to him. It really is the best thing for me right now, even if it’s a blessing that comes in a strange and precarious package.
It’s been a month since Matteo asked me to go undercover for him, so I had a lot of time to think myself out of it. I needed the time to heal from the implant insertion, which did in fact hurt like a bitch until I was given liquid morphine for the pain. I’ve never felt so much inner peace and love for the world in my whole life. No wonder people ruin their lives for that shit.
They could at least give me something to calm my nerves for the duration of the mission, but Matteo says that it’ll be too difficult to keep me safe if Vitale catches onto the fact that I’m on something. He doesn’t want my performance to be adulterated or inauthentic either, which feels like a bullshit reason. But he’s the boss, so I can’t argue with him.
It took him a few weeks to get under Vitale’s radar and find an in for me. Finally, he set up a meeting between me and one of Vitale’s most notorious recruiters, Amy Hastings.
I doubt that’s actually her last name, or even her first name, but I’ve heard multiple stories about her from men like Leonardo and Matteo’s driver. She’s incredibly wealthy, posing as the CEO of a company who is looking to bring underprivileged women into a rehab program. From what I hear, her operationdoeswork out of a methadone clinic on the south side, but women go missing from the program all the time.
Now we know where they’re going, and the reminder makes me sick to my stomach.
Most of the people that I know can’t even face the very concept of human trafficking, and here I am throwing myself directly into its warpath. I want to believe that I have good intentions, but if I’m being honest with myself, I’m being extremely selfish.
I’m meeting Amy at a five-star restaurant in the uptown district. The district is somewhere I’ve hardly been acquainted with, other than the videos I’ve seen of rooftop parties and millionaires pouring champagne into the ocean to signify their immense, superfluous wealth. It angers me every time I see it, but now that I’m here, I can understand what really attracts people to this lifestyle.
I see Amy sitting out on the patio, sipping a bellini with a plate of untouched hummus and naan in front of her. I would be more shocked if she ate it than if she didn’t just by looking at her. She’s wearing the biggest sunglasses I’ve ever seen, dwarfing her head and causing her cheekbones to stick out unnaturally. She’s the ideal upper-middle-class woman, with a fresh blowout and an Hermes bag sat proudly in the chair that I’ll be taking in a moment.
“Miranda! Hi!” she squeals as soon as she sees me. Matteo told me to use a false name, of course, but I’m regretting Miranda as a choice. Just the way she says it makes mefeellike I’m becoming my character.
Before I can protest, she embraces me in a dramatic yet rigid hug. “Here, sit down! Would you like some prosecco? I’ve been drinking bellinis, but if you’re trying to watch your figure, you can take the rest of the bottle.”
Point taken.
The fact that she’s immediately preoccupied with my weight, and therefore my appearance, is a good sign that she is who everyone says she is. I doubt it’ll be very difficult to get the right information out of her if I word my questions right. People like her can never keep a secret, and it’s even more difficult when you’re a bloodless, lecherous parasite of a person. Her livelihood depends on getting me into a crate on a ship to Romania as soon as possible.
“Oh, um, thank you,” I reply with hesitation, taking the bottle out of her eager, cold hands.
She places a glass in front of me, pushing for me to begin drinking as soon as possible before I’ve even sat down to order. She’s trying to get my guard down under the guise of being a fun, bubbly person. I knew there was a reason I never trusted salesmen.
“Okay, so I know you said you were looking for a rehab program that will be accepted by the judge on your case, correct?” she asks, her eyes glazed and impatient.
“Yeah, I need to stay clean for a year before I can get my kids back,” I lie.
It’s not hard to invent a story for her to eat up. She’s not here because she wants to help anyone. She’s here because she needs to find the easiest, most unassuming way to wash her money.
Watching the way she operates is so interesting to me. It’s honestly embarrassing how much fun I’m having pretending to be as vapid and shallow as she is. For someone who is trying to sell rehabilitation to someone, even as a cover, she couldn’t be more divorced from reality if she tried.
She keeps calling me “girly” or “chica” - terms of endearment that I’ve only ever encountered from women in my high school that would have dumped a bucket of blood on me at prom. She seems to really believe her own lies too, which doesn’t surprise me. I’ve heard that once you’ve rewired your brain to accept lying as the truth, your mind can’t differentiate them.
